"You may now be unsafe and an outlaw and enjoy yourself!"
The man who entered was a short, middle-aged Jew of the type that
writes political reviews for magazines--black morning coat, straw
hat, gold pince-nez--a neatly trimmed dark beard beginning to
turn gray from intense mental emotion--nearly bald--a manner of
conceding the conventions rather than argue the point, without
admitting any necessity for them--a thin-lipped smile that
apologized for smiling in a world so serious and bitter. He wore
a U.S.A. ten-dollar gold piece on his watch chain, by way of
establishing his nationality.
"Well, Mr. Eisernstein? Trouble again? Sit down and let's hear
the worst," said Grim.
Eisernstein remained standing and glanced at me over in the
corner.
"I will wait until you are alone."
"Ignore him--deaf and dumb," Grim answered. "Half a minute,
though--have you had breakfast?"
"Breakfast! This is no time for eating, Mister--I beg your
pardon, Major Grim. I have not slept. I shall not break
my fast until my duty is done. If it is true that the Emperor
Nero fiddled while Rome burned, then I find him no worse than
this Administrator!"
"Has he threatened to crucify you?" Grim asked. "Take a
seat, do."
"He may crucify me, and I will thank him, if he will only in
return for it pay some attention to the business for which he
draws a salary! I drove to Headquarters to see him. He was not
there. Nobody would tell me where he is. I drove down again
from the Mount of Olives and luckily caught sight of his car in
the distance. I contrived to intercept him. I told him there is
a plot on foot to massacre every individual of my race in the
Near East--a veritable pogrom. He was polite. He seems to think
politeness is the Christian quality that covers the multitude of
sins. He offered me a cigar!
"I offered him a telegram blank, with which to cable for
reenforcements! He said that all rumours in Jerusalem become
exaggerated very quickly, and offered me a guard of one soldier
to follow me about! I insisted on immediate military precautions
on a large scale failing which I will cable the Foreign Office in
London at my own expense. I offered to convince him with
particulars about this contemplated pogrom but he said he had an
urgent appointment and referred me to you, just as Nero might
have referred a question regarding the amphitheatre to one of
his subordinates!"
"Pogroms mean nothing in his young life," Grim answered smiling.
"I'm here to do the dirty work. Suppose you spill the news."
"You must have heard the news! Yet you ignore it! The Moslems
are saying that we Zionists have offered two million pounds, or
some such ridiculous sum, for the site of Solomon's Temple. They
are spreading the tale broadcast. Their purpose is to stir up
fanaticism against us. The ignorant among them set such value on
that rock and the mosque their cut-throat ancestors erected on it
that Jews are now openly threatened as they pass through the
streets. Yet there is not one word of truth in the story of our
having made any such offer."
"There are plenty of troops," said Grim. "Any attempt at
violence could be handled instantly."
"Then you will do nothing?"
"What do you suggest ought to be done?"
"Here is a list. Read it. Those are the names of fifty Arabs
who are active in spreading anti-Zionist propaganda."
Grim read the list carefully.
"All talkers," he said. "Not a really dangerous man among them."
"Ah! There you are! I might have expected it!" Eisernstein
threw up his hands in a gesture of contempt rather than despair.
"Nobody cares what happens to Jews. Nobody cares for our
sleepless agony of mind. Nobody cares how or what we suffer
until afterward, when there will be polite expressions of regret,
which the survivors will assess at a true valuation! It is the
same wherever we turn. Last night--at half-past one in the
morning--a committee of us, every one American, Called at the
American consulate to tell our consul of our danger. The consul
was unsympathetic in the last degree. Yet our coreligionists in
the States are taxed to pay his salary. He said it was not
his business. He referred us to the Administrator. The
Administrator refers me to you. To whom do you refer me? To the
devil, I suppose!"
"The best thing you can do," said. Grim, "is to go ahead and deny
that story about the offer to buy the Dome of the Rock. You
Zionists have got the most efficient publicity bureau on earth.
You can reach the public ear any time you want to. Deny the
story, and keep on denying it."
"Ah! Who will believe us? To be a Zionist is to be a person
about whom anybody will believe anything; and the more absurd
the lie, the more readily it will be believed! Meanwhile, the
Moslems are sharpening their swords against us from one end of
this land to the other!"
I suppose that what Eisernstein really needed more than anything
was sympathy, not good advice. Grim's deliberate coolness only
irritated the passion of a man, whose whole genius and energy
were bent on realizing the vision of a nation of Jews firmly
established in their ancient home. A people that has been
tortured in turn by all the governments can hardly be expected to
produce un-nervous politicians. He was at the mercy of emotions,
obsessed by one paramount idea. A little praise just then of his
loyalty to an ideal, to which he had sacrificed time, means,
health, energy, everything, would have soothed him and hurt
nobody. But the acidity of his scorn had bitten beneath the
surface of Grim's good humor.
"There'll be no pogrom," Grim said, getting up and lighting a
cigarette. "There'll be nothing resembling one. But that won't
be the fault of you Zionists. You accuse without rime or reason,
but you yell for help the minute you're accused yourselves. I
don't blame the Arabs for not liking you. Nobody expects Arabs
to enjoy having their home invaded by an organization of
foreigners. Yet if this Administration lifts a finger to make
things easier for the Arabs you howl that it's unfair.
"If the Administrator refuses to arrest Arabs for talking a
little wildly, you call him a Nero. I'm neither pro- nor anti-
Zionist myself. You and the Arabs may play the game out between
you for all of me. But I can promise you there'll be no pogrom.
It is my business to know just what precautions have been taken."
"Words! Major Grim. Words!" sneered Eisernstein, getting up to
go. "What do words amount to, when presently throats are to be
cut? If your throat were in danger, I venture to say there would
be something doing, instead of mere talk about precautions! I
hope you will enjoy your little cigarette," he added bitterly.
"Good morning!"
"Talk of fiddling while Rome burns!" Grim laughed as soon as the
Zionist had left the room. "Has it ever occurred to you that
Nero was possibly smothering his feelings? I wonder how long
there'd be one Zionist left out here, if we simply stood aside
and looked on. Go and change your clothes, Suliman. It's time I
broke a leg."
Grim disappeared upstairs himself, and returned about ten minutes
later in the uniform of a Shereefian officer--that is to say, of
Emir Feisul's Syrian army. Nothing could be smarter, not
anything better calculated to disguise a man. Disguise, as any
actor or detective can tell you, is not so much a matter of make-
up as suggestion. It is little mannerisms--unstudied habits that
identify. The suggestion that you are some one else is the thing
to strive for, not the concealment of who you really are.
Grim's skin had been sun-tanned in the Arab campaign under
Lawrence against the Turks. The Shereefian helmet is a
compromise between the East and West, having a strip of cloth
hanging down behind it as far as the shoulders and covering the
ears on either side, to take the place of the Arab head-dress.
The khaki uniform had just enough of Oriental touch about it
to distinguish it from that of a British officer. No man
inexperienced in disguise would dream of choosing it; for the
simple reason that it would not seem to him disguise enough. Yet
Grim now looked so exactly like somebody else that it was hard to
believe he was the same man who had been in the room ten minutes
before. His mimicry of the Syrian military walk--blended of
pride and desire not to seem proud--was perfect.
"I'm now staff-captain Ali Mirza of Feisul's army," he announced.
"Ali Mirza a man notorious for his anti-British rancor, but
supposed to be down here just now on a diplomatic mission. I've
been seen about the streets like this for the last two days. But
say: that doctor is a long time on the way."
He went to the telephone, but did not call the hospital; that
would have been too direct and possibly too secret.
"Give me Headquarters--yes--who's that?--never mind who's
speaking--say: I can't get the military hospital--something wrong
with the wire--will you call Major Templeton and say that Major
Grim has had an accident--yes, Grim--compound fracture of the
thigh--very serious--ask him to go at once to Major Grim's
quarters--thanks--that's all." He returned to the fireplace and
stood watching me meditatively for several minutes.
"If you deceive Templeton, you'll do," he said at last. "Wait
a minute."
He went to the desk and scribbled something in Arabic on a sheet
of paper, sealed that in a blank envelope, and handed it to me.
"Hide it. You've two separate and quite distinct tasks, each
more important and, in a way, dangerous than the other. The
principal danger is to me, not you. If they spot you, my
number's as good as hoisted from that minute. You mustn't kid
yourself you're safe for one second until the last card has
been played."
"Who are 'they'?"
"I'm coming to that. Your first job is to make it possible for
me to get the confidence of one or two of these conspirators.
You're a deaf-and-dumb man--stone deaf--with a message for staff-
captain Ali Mirza, which you will only deliver to him in person.
Suliman does the talking. You say nothing. You simply refuse to
hand your message over to any one but me. They'll appreciate why
a deaf and dumb man should be chosen for treasonable business.
But perhaps you're scared--maybe you'd rather reconsider it?
It's not too late."